


Sweet Days

by cat_salad



Category: One Piece
Genre: AU, Ace is a waiter, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Apron, Dark Past, F/F, Luffy and Sabo are up to no good, M/M, Marco is a sly little shit, Okama, Okama Paradise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-25 12:19:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cat_salad/pseuds/cat_salad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His boss stops him from tearing the wretched thing to shreds. He wags a finger at the younger man. "That's not our work morale is it now, Ace-boy?" He sighs and nods his head; he really needs this job. Even if the cafe he's working at is slightly queer ... Bon Clay pulls back to admire him and the craftsmanship on his employee. </p><p>"There," he coos, pulling facial expressions of pure delight at him, contorting his radical face-paint. The two pink filled circles on his cheeks stretched as his face split into an enormous puckering of his lips. "you're all ready now. Off you go, Ace-boy," </p><p>Bon Clay had ways of making you succeed which made you want to have failed alone miserably instead. At least that smiling blonde customer made up for it. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. lemonade & pastries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So (7th of August) I got a PM:  
> azab: can I make a OP request?  
> CH: sbdbicndensnagt!! YES! <3  
> azab: i want a marco X ace story an AU ace as a waiter  
> CH: O.O ... >:D I love you.  
> azab: I love you too  
>  :::makes babies:::
> 
> PS: in British slang, a poof means a gay man.

   
He fumbled with the spotless clean cloth, muttering curses under his breath. How was he supposed to tie this stupid thing? Someone had explained it to him earlier, but it was all gibberish on his ears. Tie it once around the waist, then double fold? What? Argh, he sighed, agitated. He stared at the item of clothing. Men don't wear aprons! Aprons are for poofs and girls! (Well, not really for girls anyway, he wasn't a sexist pig like that.) And maids in cafes! The piece of clothing slackened and fell off his waist, straight after he thought he'd accomplished tying it together. He wrestled more savagely with the thing. Bloody, fucking, hell— ...  
  
His boss passed through the back and spotted him, rather alarmed as it appeared that his employee was having a wrestling match with his clothing.  
  
"Ace-boy! What on earth are you doing?!" he cried, rushing over to the aid of the apron. Employees, after all, were more easily replaced than staff uniforms.  
  
"It's the apron," Ace whined. "it doesn't seem to do as I want it to."  
  
He'd been working at Swan Cafe for a week now. At first he'd been a trainee, so that his boss could evaluate if he wanted him to work at his cafe. He'd done most of the work indoors, just wearing standard black clothing with the cafe's logo on it (a swirly white "S" on his right breast) and a name tag, stating he was new. But now that he was actually a waiter at the cafe, (which he was thrilled about, seeing as now he was making more than the minimum wage) he had to wear the proper clothing, and well, ... He'd never really been good at clothes. (one of the reasons why he's been kicked out of other jobs because he keeps "forgetting" to put his shirt on)  
  
His boss, Bon Clay, (also referred to as "Bon-chan")  tuts disapprovingly. He'd always thought that his boss was a bit of a weirdo, with his stark contrasting make-up and long battering eyelashes. He eyed his boss' pursed lips with a hint of disapproval. Today the lipstick colour was an exotic parisian red, or so he'd been amorously told by some of the other, more fashion centred, staff members. It slightly disgusted him. But then again he'd done so much, much, worse than publicly applying make-up. Like the time he'd set fire to Smoker's car. Or that time he goaded his younger brother into adding ammonia into his chemistry project, which resulted in a miniature indoor lab explosion. Ace really had to change the way he role modelled himself to the younger generation, seeing as how he was having such a stellar effect on his little brother's friends. Like how the last time his brother's friends had nearly caused his landlady to kick him out because they'd rampaged his dorm. Luckily for him the landlady had a soft spot for flexing biceps and slicked abdominal muscles, because he'd opened the door topless, effectively cutting her throwing him out of the dorm process off. It kinda helped that her knocking fist had nearly touched his chest, because it flustered her so amazingly well that her threat had been cut short. He just wasn't allowed to bring his brother's friends into his dorm anymore, which, he thought, was considerably better than having to live in another dorm entirely.  
  
His boss stops him from tearing the wretched thing to shreds. He wags a finger at the younger man. "That's not our work morale is it now, Ace-boy?" He sighs and nods his head; he really needs this job. Even if the cafe he's working at is slightly queer ... With the inner cafe and back door being separated by a black curtain with golden lining, acting as two giant double doors, staff toilets heading off to the left while the kitchen led off to the right and downstairs, a dumb waiter situated next to the phone stall. The glimmering pristine white marble floor reflected his own predicament back to him. Well, at least it pays the rent.  
  
The clothing item of mental torture was gently prised from his hands. Ace gazed up at his tall boss, black eyes questioning. His shoulders are grasped and he's pivoted on the spot, with his back to his boss. His boss is too fast for him to stop him from doing what he did next. The apron is settled softly against his hips, the cord going around the back, suddenly pulled incredibly tight on his body, and as his boss' frontside (and somewhat muscular chest) shoves against his backside he can't stop the surprised squeak escape him. The string is then crossed around his front again and then (the pressure goes away from his back) tied in a small double bow knot around the back. Ace is sure his whole head is bright red. He can practically feel the flames on his face.  
  
Bon Clay pulls back to admire him and the craftsmanship on his employee. "There," he coos, pulling facial expressions of pure delight at him, contorting his radical face-paint. The two pink filled circles on his cheeks stretched as his face split into an enormous puckering of his lips. "you're all ready now. Off you go, Ace-boy,"  
  
Bon-chan pats his arse a couple of times, eyes admiring, and sends him off, face flaming red and dignity and pride sunken under national sea levels.  
  
Bon Clay had ways of making you succeed which made you want to have failed alone miserably instead.  
  
Trying to clear his mind of his recent humiliation, Ace grabs a tray from the kitchens and walks towards the terrace. Today the serving of customers sat at the terrace falls into his shift, and the staff had just chilled off the lunchtime rush. He could take it easy at the moment, until the next rush hour at night, where the cafe would be serenaded with couples on dates and hungry families going out to the movies. (not to mention the secret mistresses, and boy, had he had an eyeful of them. Middle aged men with younger women, grossly kissing in public and looking for familiar faces before spiriting their cheating arses away. Believe it or not, he even had a regular lesbian couple who ate their dishes with pleasurable vigour visit and ask for his waitressing.)  
  
There are scant few scattered people sat on the terrace, and as he counts them, he sees that about seven of the ten were already being served by his employees. He spots a lone customer lounging in the sun, laid back in his chair. It's a table for two and the other chair was filled with the customer's personal items and jacket.  
  
He walks (more like power-storms, since a valuable customer under his service could be lost) over before any of the waiters or waitresses could claim him and gently places a menu down onto the table. While his customer, a blonde man slightly older than him with a puzzling haircut, roamed the contents of the list, Ace flashed a "paws off, bitches" to the other colleagues, who scowl at him in return.    
  
"I think I'll have a glass of lemonade, please," the man said. Ace jolted slightly, surprised by the clarity in the man's voice, how soft it was. He felt his cheeks start to warm and so graciously bowed his head, thanked his customer, and sped out of there.  
  
Bon-chan makes a smooth comment about how his working policy doesn't permit his employees to fall in love with the customers, but if Ace did it'd make a great love story and Bon-chan would back him up. All the way.  
  
Ace swears and bustles his booty to the kitchens, swarming with shouting and bits of stray food and easily angered chefs. He calls out for a lemonade, and has to hastily dodge a shoe aimed for his head. "Drinks are served at the bar, green sprout!" a cook yells at him, shoving him back out the double doors.  
  
Ace feels bright red humiliation creep up on his face, and tries to walk to the bar with as much bravado as he can muster. The bartender, a tall, thin man who always wore shapely tailored suits, smiled apologetically at him. He'd heard.  
  
"I'm sorry about Patty, he can be a bit of a dickhead from time to time," he said, words smooth and heavy at the same time. A smoker's voice that didn't grate out each fourth word in a gravelly tone. Somewhat fitting, for him, surprising and elegant and a touch rough.  
  
Ace propped his elbow on the polished surface of the counter, a faint reflection showing through dark marble, and sat on one of the stools. "Yeah, thanks Sanji. I'm still not really used to this stuff. I'd rather be a car mechanic; shirtless and getting dirty and being serenaded by sexy girls — than working at a restaurant."  
  
Sanji barks a laugh, and his eyes flick towards the kitchen doors, his fingers twitching. Ace knows that he'd rather be in there busting serious arse and making seventeen different types of soup that'd take him four days to make. Sanji is, after all, the runner up for sous chef. Unfortunately, he's stuck doing shifts for the bar in between juggling his culinary career and spends his time longingly staring at the double doors when he's not in the kitchen, and chatting up pretty girls. And Sanji has a very acquired taste. And speaking of acquired taste, . . .    
  
Oh, his customer.  
  
"Uh, Sanji," Ace calls softly, face scrunched up, checking his notepad. (That thing is his God and is worshipped as God, Bon Clay being of slightly lower Godlyness rank.) "One glass of lemonade, please."  
  
Sanji smiles, then reaches into the see-through fridge behind him and grabs a glass bottle, pouring the lime yellow liquid into a plain glass, decorating the delicate rim with a cut lemon. Ace thanks him, puts it on his tray, and heads back outside.  
  
The sunlight nearly blinds him, so he has to squint as he adjusts to the light, and heads towards his customer, tray held aloft. He gently places the drink down, smiles at the man. "Thanks," he says, and smiles back.  
  
(He's bathed in sunlight and it's amplifying the lightness of his hair, how soft and downy it looks from that angle, almost like Sabo's, but— different. He seems like he could fit right in at an advert for summer holiday paradises and great coffee at terrace restaurants.)  
  
He sees his favourite couple of customers make their way to their usual spot, slightly off on the corner of the terrace near the side-wall, sectioning their property with another shop, just under the shade. He excuses himself (barely noticed by his customer as he stares at his drink in wonder, most likely surprised by how good it tastes) and walks towards them, plastering on a darling lovely smile, greeting his two favourite ladies, tucking their chairs in for them and making idle chat. (He, he, another table of swooning customers claimed by Ace, the notorious microwave exploder and out of dorm kicker.) (Smooth moves, boy.)  
  
The ladies belong to a special community group that Bon Clay religiously attended before he took up the job of running a restaurant, and are fellow believers of the way of fishnet tights and stockings, and as members of Emporio Ivankov's group, get special discounts at the Swan Cafe.  
  
 **Rule # 2 :**  
 _30% discount to members of the_ Okama Paradise.  
  
(The plus side to Bon Clay's huge discount is that most of the members of Iva's group wholeheartedly embrace extravagance and extremes, and thus gorge themselves a hefty sum, with or without the discount in place.)  
  
Ace's boss adores them so much that he'll often risk his neck by coming out of his office to chat with any of the Okama members, many the aftermath of loud gossiping and the exchange of make-up. Sadly though, Zeff, the chef, feels that by Bon-chan's dawdling that his pension is at risk and often ends up booting the man back to his office. Which in turn ends up with a cranky, kitchen-deprived Sanji yelling at the pair of them from the safety of the bar, which in turn ends up with half of the cooks in the kitchen coming out to start up a restaurant-division war between the boss, the waiters, Sanji and the cooks.  
  
Ace has only witnessed it once, but he's been told by the other waiters and waitresses that the last time (before Ace started as a trainee) the division war had happened, someone (Ace had a hunch that it was Patty, the burly and uncomfortably feminine-looking cook) had chucked a live lobster through the room and the wriggling red creature had landed in some unfortunate soul's lap. That, and a poor waitress had been harassed by some of the clientele about their work ethics, which had upset Bon-chan so much he'd nearly been moved to tears.  
  
Thus, **Unwritten Rule # 3 :**  
 _Division wars are to be restricted to the kitchen and the back door._  
  
The consequences of not following through with the unwritten rule?  
  
 _— > The Boss will flip a shit._  
  
"Had a nice day, ladies?" Ace asked, a certain fondness in his tone.  
  
The women; named Ann and Koki respectively, both had the same sort of tolerant and gentle aura that Ace appreciated in women.  
  
Ann, a tall, stocky woman with short jet black ringlets, had once been mistaken for one of Ace's siblings and had nearly been shooed out of the restaurant by an irritable Patty. (The chef still had a bone to pick with Ace after he'd seen how much he ate during his lunch break.) Ann's appetite wasn't as big as her counterpart's though, as Koki seemed to have an addiction to anything chocolate and biscuit related. That, and Ann was not a D. and thus did not posses a stomach with a bottomless pit. Koki, an energetic adult teenager with light green hair that was so long it nearly sweeped her thighs, tried making out that she possessed said bottomless stomach, and always ate her full with much clamour and smacking of lips.  
  
Ann smiles, her face lighting up, and opens her mouth to speak. "Ye—"  
  
Koki leans over, her eyes bright and her voice speeding, her mouth skidding and her words stuttering in her excitement to speak. "— Yes! Oh we've had so much fun today, Ace! Oop-ps, sorry, I meant Ace-san, but, uh. Yeah!" her little tan face exploded with little rays of sunshine again as she recovered from her stumble. "We went and watched Avida-san's special burlesque show yesterday! Oh it was wonderful, Ace-san—"  
  
A napkin puts Koki's speech to an abrupt halt, and her wide eyes as she tries talking around said napkin was a sight to behold for everyone.  
  
Ann, slightly put off and crabby, frowns and turns to Ace, who just stands there, biting his cheek to try and keep a straight face. She tucks a flyaway black ringlet behind her ear and clears her throat. Opposite her, Koki silently removes the napkin and folds it on the table, mood slightly dejected; like a kicked animal.  
  
"We've had a nice day, what about you?" She says, and Ace has to flush a bit at her words. A girl asking how his day had gone! Unfortunately Ace didn't have a chance in hell with her, seeing as **Rule 4#** is that _you're not allowed to hook up with any of the customers_ , and that she was also taken by the woman sitting opposite her. So yeah.  
  
Ace scratched his elbow. "Oh, alright. I haven't really gotten the hang of some of the things here though." He says, thinking of the cooks laughing at him when he went to the kitchen instead of the bar for drinks, or how Bon-chan inadvertently made love to his backside this morning when he couldn't put his apron-thingy on the right way. "I'm okay though," He chuckles.  
  
While he lets Koki and Ann mull over what they wanted to order, he's flagged down by one of his least favourite customers; a fat man with a titanium jaw transplant who went by the name of Wapol.  
  
The man had decided to target Ace ever since he first laid eyes on him, and had continued to make his life sour throughout his training and official employment. He greeted Ace with emasculating nicknames and truly humiliating stories. He'd complained loudly several times and had even roused the cooks' tempers when he once claimed to have found hair in his food. He'd treated Ace like shit and today wasn't any different. He'd made very specific orders that Ace knew wasn't on the menu, had then changed his mind half a dozen times, and had told the waiter to then go and reheat it for him because it wasn't cooked enough. By the time that he had left Ace was just about ready to paint the walls red with his blood, and Ann and Koki had looked rather trepidatious  throughout the meal as Wapol clamoured loudly.  
  
Ace manages to serve another two customers without exploding, (but he's sure that it's going to happen soon, anyway) and decides that he should check up on his blonde customer who'd ordered a lemonade and a little batch of pastries.  
  
His apron nearly snags against a chair he was passing by, and he hastily tugs the thing, grumbling about the stupidity of aprons and that they're only made for porn and looking professional. He reaches his customer, about to ask if he wanted anything else, and if everything was satisfactory. But the customer opened his mouth to speak, and Ace's clicked shut on command.  
  
"That's not an apron," he said.  
  
"Well what's it then supposed to be called?" he snapped back rather crassly. Oops, he was starting to loose his cool. He needed this job. His dignity and pride as a man (Hell, even that of a fucking pirate) could wait. His pay date couldn't.  
  
The customer frowned, but didn't reply.  
  
He felt annoyance bubble up. Soon he was going to start gnashing his teeth. "So it _is_ an apron(!)" he cursed silently under his breath, picking up his empty lemonade glass, the cool surface pleasing to touch. He carefully placed it on the metal tray, keeping one eye on the customer.  
  
Stupid motherfucking poof apron, what a shitty job, argh ....  
  
"So does this make you gay?" the customer asked innocently. Ack! He'd heard some of the stuff he'd said! (he even had the gall to smirk at him, as if this was funny!) This was worse than the time that Sabo had convinced Luffy to "boil" an egg in the microwave! And that wasn't even remotely funny! (he refused to acknowledge the fact that his blonde brother had made his little brother explode egg yolk and shells all over his old flat.) (Hence the fact that he now lived in a dorm.)  
  
He turned to look fully at his customer, shocked. He was gaping at him. He was reminded of his little lesbian couple eating at their usual spot a little ways away. "No!" he said, a little too quickly.  
  
Ace could feel his cheeks burn as his customer gave him a secretive, knowing little smile, black eyes twinkling.  
  
He reverently wishes that his boss won't suggest what else that look could be good for, as Ace can already feel a swooning tug on his heartstrings.  
  
"Thanks for the meal," he says, humbly, and Ace is blown away by his kindness, having put up with Wapol's torturous bossing about for half an hour. "I'll have the check now, please."  
  
Ace jerks slightly. "Uh. Yes. I'll get it now, sir."  
  
He enters the restaurant and is shot a curious and equally confused look by Sanji, who swapped shifts with another waitress and was in the process of walking to the kitchen when he spotted Ace. "Uh, something wrong with your face, man?" Sanji asks as Ace rings up his customer's orders and types it into a computer next to the kitchen entrance.  
  
"No,"  
  
Sanji falters slightly. "Well, uh, your face, —" he motions with his hands, pointing around his own face. "— it's kind of red."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Ace rips the bill from the little printer and folds it neatly onto a tiny tray.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"It's kinda hot out." he lies.  
  
Sanji raises a hand, a sort of farewell, the other pressed against the kitchen's double doors, and enters. "See you."  
  
The rest of the day is normal; his customer pays, Ann and Koki gossip about the blonde man and talk about fishnet tights (Bon-chan is drawn to them like a magnet and is promptly pulled back to his office by a fiery waitress who wasn't afraid to lose her job), Ace serves other customers, etc, etc...  
  
He goes home and remembers that secretive little smile and too bright hair and perfect dining adverts and that warm, soft _"Thank you."_ Or the way that their fingers touched slightly as his customer gave him a nice tip, a tiny twinkle in his eyes.  
  



	2. apple pie & cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But those days are over his shoulder, and Ace is no longer the infamous Fire Fist that set fire to Officer Smoker’s car and was lucky with the ladies, but rather Portgas D. Ace; microwave exploder, on the straight and narrow and still doesn’t know how to tie an apron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A ballerino is a 'dancing master', and it's where the feminine version 'ballerina' comes from. (So people, it was actually men who started ballet! At least, I hope so).

Last night Bon Clay had rounded up his culinary staff and had informed them of his plan to make a one-day specialised menu. He'd also invited half of the members of  _Okama Paradise_  to lunch. 

How come Ace knows all of this? 

Because he walked into work to find pastries everywhere; on display cases, prettily decorated tarts on the bar, small cups of cream, berries and wafers as aperitifs set on tables, the works. There was also noticeably more daring decorations added to the interior of the cafe. 

There was a nude painting of two men (Jesus fuck Ace felt like he was a kid again and on a school trip to a cheap museum) hanging on the wall next to the kitchen doors, light pink tablecloths which blended surprisingly well with the café’s black, white and gold colour scheme. The napkins were silk and had been folded into swans, and he'd been given a crash course of origami napkin folding and was given a small menu card of all the added choices to the menu that fitted neatly into one of the flat pockets of his serving apron. 

Bon Clay, also known as Bon-chan, flutters about the tables and dusts off last minute decorations with added _ballerino_ moves and pivots on his feet so fast that he takes Ace by surprise and grips his shoulders. " _Ace-boy!_ " he says delightedly. Ace can't help but feel his mood being affected by his boss' bursting energy. He smiles feebly and forgets his sleepless night.   
  
"Yes?" 

"Oh everything is going  _so well_!" Bon-chan cheers.   
  
He swings Ace about and nearly bumps into Sanji, who scurries between the bar and the kitchen with zeal, pastries and girlish food decorations held in his hands. "Iva-sama, my  _idol_ , has agreed to eat at  _my_  restaurant!" he cries, and swoops down so fast that it's only at the sixth peck that Ace realises that he is being showered with kisses. 

Bon-chan twirls away to badger Sanji as he whips up cream and pastry crust in the kitchen. 

Ace is so flummoxed that he doesn't bother point out to his boss that the restaurant is actually a cafe, and that Ace could sue his ballerino arse with harassment. (In all honesty, he wouldn’t even know how, and it wasn’t really in their culture to sue people).

Suddenly, just before opening time, a redheaded chef a few years younger than Luffy grabs his arm and pulls him to the side. Ace is about to give the kid some flak for pulling him about, because being Bon-chan's toy is already humiliating enough, when he notices the grim expression on the boy's face. 

The boy's name is Tajio, and he works under Sanji's strict supervision. "There's something you need to know, Ace-san," he says, and gulps as the doors are being opened out front, ready for another day at work. His dark eyes linger on them before looking nervously at Ace. "What's wrong?" he says, frowning as Tajio leans in so close that Ace can count all the dark freckles splattered across his nose and cheekbones. The redhead opens his mouth to explain. "Because, you are, you know," he does a funny shrug, hands pointing over his face, shoulders, waist and torso as if it would explain what he meant. 

"Because I'm _what?_ " Ace says, mildly annoyed. Hey, he's not a saint, okay? He's got a short fuse, is all. 

Tajio's face flushes beet red to match the colour of his hair. " _Because you're pretty okay?_ " he gasps, then continues quieter and faster. "So just be wary if they, uh,  _start to touch you_  or stuff." 

" _If they touch me or **stuff**?_ " Ace hisses at Tajio, pulling them both out of the way as a pretty waitress called Ever walks past them.   
  
“Or _stuff_?” Ace repeats, hissing through his teeth again.   
  
Ever has fluffy little wings attached to her arms. Thank god it was only her with a set of wings, but then Tajio's words ring in his head and Ace can see himself being forced to wear devil horns by Bon-chan. It's scary how easy he can envision that scenario.   
  
Ace blinks.

"Wait. How the fuck am I  _pretty_?" 

Tajio shrinks into himself when Ace turns to glare at him. Ace gestures to his body, then his face. His tone is deadly quiet and his eyes are as cold as death. "How the fuck is this piece of steaming sex on legs  _'pretty_ '?" Tajio giggles madly in panic, but is saved by Patty, the burly feminine looking cook. 

"Why hello Portgas,  _distracting_  our staff?" Patty's eyes are mischievous and smug. There's something about the way the man says 'distracting', all heavily stressed and underlined, as if Ace had been caught in the act of sexual indecency with a whip in one hand and a cooking instrument in the other with Tajio cowering at his feet. Patty claps his big hairy hands on Tajio's shoulders, who crumples under him with a yelp. "We better get going before the Okama freaks show up, hmm?" Patty eyes Ace up and down, smirks, and leaves. (Again, it feels as if Ace were a part of a private joke he was not let in on yet.) But not before saying "Your luck's in today Portgas, plenty of tips coming your way, eh?". 

Ace was hit with a feeling of _what the actual fuck_ and has a silent and aggressive fit of frustration, gripping his hair and gesturing rudely behind Patty's broad, retreating back. Hey, you can't expect Ace to be perfect when nobody else is, okay? 

"ACE!" Old man Zeff, the cafe's — restaurant, whatever— head chef yells at him shrilly. The man has an overbearing fear that any inactivity and procrastination from any member of staff will negatively affect his future pension plans, and has thus made it his top priority to hustle and prod anyone into action. (Some of the more lazy or relaxed staff members have been hassled by Zeff's 'peg leg' before, and haven't been too happy by it.) 

"Brat how many times have I told you to  _get back to work?!_ " Zeff shouts, and three waiters and two waitresses and Ace run out of the café in their haste to avoid being pegged by his prosthetic leg. 

* * *

**Unwritten Rule # 4 :**

_Avoid the leg at all costs. Warnings will be given. And if you miss them, well . . ._

* * *

 

Ace isn't the first to see the Okamas arrive, but is alerted by an early warning system called  _his boss_. 

" _Oooooh!_ " Bon Clay calls loudly, today's make-up featuring hideous neon pink blush and green eyeliner and red lipstick. (Ace rigorously checks his cheeks for any red muck and is thankful that whatever make-up product his boss uses he at least has sense enough to buy the non-smear ones.) 

(He's dated girls before where he's come back home covered in fake red lovebites all along his cheeks, mouth and even his neck, much to his brothers' amusement. Most of the time he had been a little too drunk to care, but it wasn't exactly pleasant.) 

His boss waves his hands about in what may have been elegant and feminine if it hadn't been ruined by how fast and eccentric he was behaving, which made it just seem like he was flapping his hands about like a maniac on redbull. 

Bon Clay dashes out of the cafe with all the elegance of a stampeding bull, arms wide, welcomes and compliments gushing from his mouth. Ace swears that he feels some part of himself die a little on the inside. 

A dishcloth is thrown at him from somewhere behind him, and Ace spurs into action, walking fast out of the door into the early noon sunlight. 

The first thing Ace sees when he regains his sight from the blinding sun is the amazing amount of stockings and fishnets being worn among the Okamas. Some wear hotpants while others wear feather boas, some wear fake fur coats and some have grizzly beards. Apart from the facial hair, Ace might have been reminded of cabaret nights at  _Sinners_ , run by a ridiculously tall and thin man who is infamous for wearing a pink feather boa jacket and who liked to entertain his men not only with scantily clad women but also with quiz nights and little shows and plenty of alcohol. (The fact that Ace knows he also runs a gay strip club called _The Flamingo_ is purely coincidental. Really, it is. No, seriously, Bon Clay tends to run his mouth a lot when Ace is around. The fact that Ace had then searched it up online however, is not coincidental. The webpage will forever be a dark stain in his browsing history, much like all the other not – safe – for - work things he’s looked at over the past years).

The second thing Ace notices is the astonishing amount of people who pause and give him appreciative once overs. Ace suddenly doesn't know if he's more popular with the ladies or with the _men_ , as it feels as if nearly every pair of eyes are raking down his shirt covered waist and staring at the fucking stupid apron he's wearing and his pressed black trousers. 

All sharks eat meat, regardless of gender. 

Oh yeah, Ace is _definitely_ feeling the fine burn of embarrassment creep along his face and neck and Patty's imagined chuckle is all too sweet in his ears as Ace goes along and starts appointing people seating places. 

More than a few try to subtly trace their hands down parts of his clothing (the apron, the sleeve of his shirt, his outer thigh when they sit down) but Ace is a man well versed in the ways of subtle groping, coming from years of experience of shirtless parties, too much alcohol and prowling cheap nightclubs and thus manages to evade (most. Okay nearly all) the meandering hands.   
  
Everything is going okay (Ace nearly got poked in the eye by someone’s fake studded leather jacket and managed to snatch a falling plate from one of the other waiter’s hands.) so far, but just as Ace is finishing up with seating the Okamas at his last table disaster strikes.   
  
Throughout the day Ace’s mind kept replaying Tajio’s words, the way he pointed at Ace’s shoulders, his waist, the fucking silly apron. Patty’s horrible smirk also features a lot, along with his manic cackle of glee, like a cartoon villain who is getting sweet, sweet revenge on the main character. It seems that Patty has seen other good looking staff members be thrown to the lions, well, at the mercy of the Okamas’ ogling and flirty habits. 

_"There's something you need to know, Ace-san,"  
_  
 _"So just be wary if they, uh, —“_  
  
 _“_ — _start to touch you_  or stuff _.”  
  
_ " _Because you're pretty okay?_ "  
  
 _"Your luck's in today Portgas, plenty of tips coming your way, eh?"_  
  


Thinking through what Tajio had said made Ace think harder about how people viewed him. Ace knew that he was in pretty good physical condition, but he hardly believed that he registered on people’s gay-dar, much less the fact that he was rapidly becoming a gay magnet. Most of the Okama members fluttered their eyelashes at him, and more than a fair few acted more than friendly around him.   
  
It was during these deep thoughts where Ace realised that people like the Okamas though he was pretty — not handsome — that disaster struck.   
  
Ace vaguely registered someone’s presence behind him, but it was too late. A hand flew through the air and connected with Ace’s backside with an almighty _smack!_   
  
Ace’s spine straightened ramrod upright, whole body stiffening reflexively, a short yell of shock escaping him as he dropped everything he was holding — his notepad thumped onto the table he’d just finished serving, but the biro pen clattered to the floor, as did the extra additions menu. Ace’s hands flew to his stinging backside. It felt like someone had just smashed a breezeblock against his pelvis — he was sure that there would be a bruise.   
  
But all of that was quickly swept aside, as every eye was locked on to Ace, the hot waiter, and the person that had just slapped Ace’s ass like he was their little bitch. He felt a giant rage build up in the pit of his stomach, solidifying like molten lava and bubbling up his chest.   
  
It’s the sort of rage that has gotten Ace into trouble with the police down at Red Line before, the kind that usually leaves people going to hospital and the newspapers writing a short article about the notorious _Fire Fist_ striking back in whatever downtown bar he was at. It’s a dark reminder of Ace’s recent past, a part that still leaves him awake at night to haunt him, makes the scars on his knuckles prickle as he walks past the downtown shanty area as fast as he can without stopping, makes Ace carry a knife in his pocket even during the day because he’s been attacked before in broad daylight and no one had lifted so much as a single finger to help him out or to call the cops. It’s the sort of rage that consisted of Ace’s rebellious teenage years spent in Officer Smoker’s office down at the police station, playing with zippo lighters and petrol and pissing people off for the fun of it because nobody gave a fuck about what happened to a stray jackass teenager who skipped school and felt the need every now and again to take his shirt off, get ridiculously drunk and fuck whoever fancied him at the time and break into people’s private property and set fire to their shit.   
  
It’s the sort of rage which has abandoned good friends and made bad ones stick — gang members ringing at his doorbell at four in the morning, asking him if they can crash at his place because the coppers are on to them and they need a place to lie low for the time being. That they then light spliffs in his living room and that they would smoke up together and the next morning Ace would wake up with a terrible headache and either Sabo or Luffy would be standing over him with this goddamned look of _disappointment_ written across their faces. It’s the rage that simmers and fizzes inside of him and burns out when Sabo breaks down in tears one night while they’re climbing over someone’s metal wire fence to go set fire to someone’s sofa in their front garden, the rage that dies when Sabo, too blackout drunk to do anything, slumps down the fencing onto the pavement and gets shot with pellet shrapnel by an angry man with a shotgun. It’s Sabo that cries and tells Ace that they need to stop — for good. It’s not good for Luffy.   
  
It’s the consequences of that rage that had Ace moving out of his old flat after another one of his old acquaintances lies low at his place and the police come knocking and charge Ace with aiding a criminal suspect. It’s the repercussions of all of the nasty shit he’s done when he was fifteen, going on to twenty that have him living in private dorms because they’ve got better security there and nobody from his past life knows his address. It’s everything that has Ace accepting a job at a café because he doesn’t have enough qualifications to be able to get a proper job — because he needs the money to be able to live safely, to be able to keep him clean and to be able to keep Luffy out of as much trouble as well.   
  
He spun around as fast as he could, about to nail whoever hit him — he guessed that it was a dude. Women generally aren’t that straightforward, but on the off chance that they are they _definitely_ don’t use that much force —   
  
His fist stops two inches away from Ann’s shocked face, and stood slightly behind her is Koki, face frozen in a half smile, eyes wide. Obviously they weren’t expecting Ace to react the way he did.  
  
“Ah. Sorry.” Ace can feel how bright his face must have become. He feels massively ashamed of what had just happened. He hasn’t lashed out like that in months. He feels relieved that his fist didn’t connect because — well it’s obvious what would have happened. 

* * *

**Rule # 1 :  
 _Never hurt the customer._**

* * *

He’s pretty sure that he hears Sanji drop a metal tray in shock from inside the café. Some people passing by have even stopped to look.   
  
Ace is sure that he’s going to be fired any moment now. That Bon Clay will stand up from where he was talking to a group of the more die hard members and walk over to him, tower over Ace with cold hate in his eyes and ask him if they can have a word in his office.   
  
What happens instead is that Koki starts laughing hysterically, and that’s the queue for the rest of the Okama club to burst out laughing, chuckles and giggles and roars of laughter erupting, any trace of tension and aggression evaporated. Some are slapping their legs, other wiping away tears, grins splitting their faces in half. Some bang their tables and their cutlery clatters on the surface.   
  
“Ha ha, Anna-neechan’s just _shit_ herself!”   
  
“Did you see her _face_?”   
  
“That was so funny! Teshi shi shi! Did anyone get that on camera?”   
  
Wait.   
  
_What?_   
  
Ace blinks. So everything is all right?   
  
No one’s reacted badly?   
  
“I— I’m really really _sorry_ Ann-san! I— I didn’t mean to —” Ace yelps, stammering out his words in a jumble. He places his hands on her shoulders, hands shaking. Ann looks shocked down to the core and it makes a mass of guilt pulse within Ace. She shakily rests her head against his shoulder, tentatively hugging him back.   
  
“Don’t try to grope him just because he’s feeling guilty!” Someone calls out to Ann, which makes more people laugh, some sarcastically _‘OoOoOoOoh!!’_ -ing.   
  
“I want a hug from the cute waiter _too_!” A woman shouts out, pouting. It has a fair few other people also requesting hugs and cuddles and maybe even a kiss on the cheek from Ace.   
  
Koki’s laughter subsides, and some pessimistic part of Ace wonders if he will now suffer the righteous punishment of Ann’s girlfriend. Instead, Koki wipes a tear of laughter away from her black eyes and smiles at him. She rests her hand on Ace’s shoulder and squeezes. Ace wonders vaguely if she’ll crush his shoulder now. It’s not the first time someone’s tried doing it to him. Instead, Koki just keeps her hand there.   
  
“No harm done, right? We were in the wrong anyway, ne?” She says, giggles a little as Ann shivers against Ace’s warm chest. “You still scared the shit out of me though, Ace-san.”   
  
Ace stares at them both in awe. He feels like he could burst into tears soon — in the past Ace used to cope with stress differently; with bottles of tequila and cigarettes and the occasional quick fuck against any available surface, but now Ace has ditched that, and has found out that he’s sometimes prone to some waterworks whenever he feels too stressed. (Read; it’s only happened twice before).   
  
The atmosphere has calmed down at the café, and the rest of the staff bustles about taking people’s orders. Ace can hear Sanji scuttling about the place, actually in such a good mood that he started to hum cooking tunes.   
  
“But, … I, — people usually don’t react that way when something like this happens.”   
  
A giant man standing behind Koki chuckles, voice so low that it startles Ace. The man is wearing something that resembles the villain’s fur coat from _101 Dalmations_ , colour divide of canary yellow and snow white split in half vertically. The man wears black sunglasses and is holding a glass of red wine in one delicate looking hand. Even his coiffed hair is dyed two different colours, yet he seems more subdued than the rest of the members of _Okama Paradise_.   
  
“That’s because we’re not exactly a normal bunch of people, aren’t we?” He says. Koki nods and smiles at Ace. 

“Yeah, _Okama Paradise_ members are made of some though stuff Ace-san — don’t worry about it!”   
  
“Well, that and Ivan-sama and quite a lot of our members like to get rowdy every now and again. Ever heard of _Kamabakka Kingdom_? It’s a rather prestigious kenpo fight club, Ivan-sama runs it on the side. Didn’t you know?”   
  
Ace gapes at the man, who introduces himself as Inazuma, but before he can really process what’s just happened, he realises that he’s still got Ann resting against his chest, and that she’s been rather quiet for a while now.   
  
“Oi!” he yelps, and Ann detaches herself from him, cheeks a light pink, eyes twinkling mischievously. “Hee hee, I got a nice hug from Ace-san,” she gloats. “You’re all nice and warm!” She exclaims.   
  
While Koki gasps and grumbles about how unfair that is, that she’s _also_ good at hugging and she’s nice and warm and cuddly _too_ ,somebody taps Ace on the shoulder.   
  
It’s Ever, the pretty redheaded waitress who is wearing little white wings on her arms as a special occasion. Bon Clay doesn’t show it often, but she’s often the reason for the twinkle in his eyes. Ever has that sort of effect on people, as even Patty, the ugly cook that can start a fight in an empty room and is crabby on his best day, gets all flustered and humble in front of the girl.   
  
_“Oh, my cooking’s not_ that _good!”_ Ace had once heard the man say bashfully after Ever had praised his food. It had shocked him so much that he’d nearly dropped the tray he was holding. Ace managed to recover, but did manage to spill curry down his front. Well — down Tajio’s front, anyway. (Bon Clay had not been that happy. Ace had to pay the laundromat bill. Sabo thought it was fucking hysterical. Twat).   
  
“Ace-san,” she says.   
  
Ever blinks coquettishly at him in her usual gentle fashion. Ace spots the black biro pen held delicately in her hand, notepad in the other.   
  
“These are yours.” She tells him, and hands them over. Ace gratefully takes them from her. He can already feel her lovely charm work on him. During his trainee period she’d been rather sympathetic and helpful to him. She’s the sort of girl that, in his past, he would have steered well away from. He couldn’t taint something as innocent and pure as her. No, he stayed with his own kind; scavenging for other fucked up kids like himself, anyone that was willing to share more than their fair share of body heat, find girls that liked the bad boy type, ones that didn’t care who they lost their virginity to. Even now, Ace tries to keep friendly distance from the young woman. She reminds him a bit too much of his past — what his younger teenage self would have done.   
  
But those days are over his shoulder, and Ace is no longer the infamous _Fire Fist_ that set fire to Officer Smoker’s car and was lucky with the ladies, but rather Portgas D. Ace; microwave exploder, on the straight and narrow and still doesn’t know how to tie an apron.   
  
Ace is reformed, a new person. Ace would rather be known as the person that is new to love and romance and kindness than be the drunk connoisseur of debauchery and one night stands.   
  
Obviously still a bit flustered, Ace stumbles a split second in thanking her. “Um, thanks, Ever-san,” he says, but Ever is quick to correct him.   
  
“Oh no, please just call me Ever!” she says, waves her hands about, little wings flapping. Some of the Okama seem to have already fallen in love with her. Ever’s charm works on everyone.   
  
“Well, … just call me Ace too then!” he replies, smiling in that same enthusiastic way.   
  
“Okay!” Ever nods happily, then spots someone past Ace’s shoulder and falters. “Um, customer for you,” she says, then goes on over to a table full of Okama members who all seem to be instantly smitten with her cute face, deep maroon hair and fluffy little wings. (Like anyone could blame them, if she’d even managed to capture _Patty’s_ heart).   
  
Ace turns around — hopes to god it’s not Wapol — and nearly comes face to face with the customer he served yesterday.   
  
Ace takes in his tanned caramel skin, the deep black eyes, dark like smoothed over stones in a rockpool, his long softly rounded nose and full-ish lips. His tall and toned physique, the wide shoulders and long neck. His thin eyebrows and downy soft looking blonde hair sticking out in tufts. — And the first thing that shoots through his head is: _“He thought my apron was gay!”_   
  
Which, of course, is not what the man had said or thought, but it had jumbled together in his head.   
  
“Um, where would you like a seat?” Ace stammers, still reeling. It feels like he’s being dealt blow after blow, obstacle after obstacle and not having enough time to recover from the initial hit.   
  
The man — customer — smiles. “I’ve already got a seat,” he says, and something about that makes Ace’s spirits drop a little. He’s lost that customer then. Someone else must already be serving him. Ace had been hoping a little to be able to make him a regular like Ann and Koki.   
  
The blonde man holds up a plasticised extra additions menu in his hand, high enough for Ace’s eye level. It’s the one Ace’d dropped earlier when Ann had smacked his butt. He smiles, and yet again, just like yesterday, he feels as if the man has a secretive little twinkle to his eye, like maybe the black smooth rock in his eyes could catch flint and start fires.   
  
“I just don’t have a waiter yet.”   
  
Yet again, Ace feels as if the man has an amusing secret, something harmless but something he feels he should be aware of all the same.   
  
“I’ll have an apple pie with cream, if you will.” He says. 

* * *

Sanji takes one look at Ace when he comes in to make his order and says; “It hot out?”   
  
“Rather.” Ace lies, and pretends to fan his red face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I’ve made this story a lot darker, but hopefully a bit more interesting? 
> 
> Also, I wanted to play on the joke I ended the chapter on last time again.
> 
> ♦ “Dude your face is all red, is it hot outside or something?”  
> ♠ “Yeah, um, totes bro my face is red because it’s hot outside and you totally can’t tell the difference in indoor and outdoor temperature.”
> 
> So happy to have finished this chapter! ☺

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: 22 November 2012 I've decided to make this into a multi-chapter story ;)


End file.
